


Distraction, Thy Name is Aziraphale

by MickyRC



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1 Things, Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Butch Aziraphale (Good Omens), Comedy, Crowley is a pine tree, Gardener Aziraphale (Good Omens), Gen, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M, Moving In Together, Mutual Pining, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, She/Her Pronouns for Aziraphale (Good Omens), She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Ze/Zir Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), they're female presenting for chapter 4 because I said so, well I think I'm funny, your mileage may vary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:46:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26205154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MickyRC/pseuds/MickyRC
Summary: Demons, of course, have superior focus and sharp wits. Crowley, as the tempter of Eden, is especially good at paying attention to his surroundings.Except for whenever a certain angel comes around, and everything goes to shit.orFive times Aziraphale drove Crowley to distraction, and one time he got revenge.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 42
Kudos: 142
Collections: Choofe Your Faces





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elizabethelizabeth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethelizabeth/gifts).
  * Inspired by [i made an excuse (you found another way)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23069911) by [elizabethelizabeth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethelizabeth/pseuds/elizabethelizabeth). 



> Another 5+1, because I am predictable and also just really enjoy this structure! Almost the whole thing is drafted and just needs edits, so I'll be updating every other day until it's done.
> 
> Based on a brilliant line in Elizabeth's fic linked above, which gave me wonderfully fun ideas _and_ saved me from finding my own title! Do note that the fic this is inspired by is explicit; thar be smut, if that's not your thing. But _i made an excuse (you found another way)_ is a beautiful fic, as are all of Elizabeth's, and I can't recommend them enough!

Crowley sat on the hill and watched while the young shepherds chased each other across the field. They were good kids, all of them. He’d gotten to know the rambunctious hoard during his time in the local village.

Crowley sighed and glanced up through the branches of the tree he sat under. The sun was nearing the very top of the sky. Soon enough, then, he’d be hearing from head office about his next assignment. He’d be whisked away to some other village or town or city and left to do what he did best, never mind that the people there were just as kind and generous as the people here. The people he met always seemed to be kind. Maybe that was why Hell sent him after them.

He watched while one of the children below pretended to trip and fall so her younger brother would have a chance at catching her. The little boy giggled and tumbled into the dirt next to his sister, and Crowley couldn’t help but smile.

“I hate to think what trouble you’ve caused here, looking so smug.” Crowley jumped as Aziraphale stepped up from behind him. The angel’s clothes were dusty with travel, and somehow he looked all the more angelic for it. “Don’t tell me you’ve started tempting children, now,” he said as he settled himself on the grass next to Crowley.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Crowley said. “You don’t get anything for tempting a kid. Resilient things, doesn’t get enough souls to be worth it.”

“That’s good,” Aziraphale said. He left it at that.

“So what brings you here?” Crowley asked when the silence became too much. “There a well needs blessing? A budding prophet in town?” He leaned close and waggled his eyebrows. “Demon to thwart?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Stop that. If I’m trying to thwart you, you’ll know it.”

Crowley gulped. He had a sinking feeling a comment like that shouldn’t have made him blush so hard.

“Actually, I’m here about one of the children,” Aziraphale continued. He pointed down the hill. “That boy there, I think it is. He’s meant to be the great grandfather of…” He waved his hand around while he searched for a name. “…well, frankly I don’t quite remember, but it’s important. He has to have a ‘moment of revelation,’ to keep everything on track.”

“The ineffable plan?” Crowley drawled.

Aziraphale humphed and climbed to his feet. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. Anyway, this’ll just take a moment. If you can keep yourself out of trouble for that long, maybe you can show me the village when I’m done.”

“Might’ve left by then. Hell waits for no one!” Crowley called after Aziraphale as he picked his way down the hill. The angel just waved a hand at him and continued on his way. Crowley sighed. “Sure, fine, I’ll just ignore the call of Hell for you then,” he snarked under his breath. His message would be coming any time now. He glanced around to see if there were any stinging flies around. Beelzebub had been experimenting with other forms of communication, but ze were always one for zir good old standards. Maybe it’d be a swarm of crows in the sky this time, as a change of pace. Or a flash of dark lightning. Something with a little pizazz, at least. The gnats were getting old. And itchy.

A flash of light made Crowley snap his head around. But instead of a fiery message from Hell, what he saw was—wings. Massive snowy white wings, bleeding light and blurred at the edges, like they weren’t made for this plane. The children had all frozen in place, staring open mouthed at Aziraphale as he walked calmly through the flock of sheep towards the boy he’d pointed out earlier. In addition to his wings and heavenly glow, he was wearing his eyes, strewn over his skin and twinkling with light.

He looked taller, Crowley thought. Not in a magical way. Just as if he were standing up straighter than usual. Holding his head high. His dusty clothes were still there, behind the glow, just as travel worn as before. Crowley couldn’t take his eyes off the contrast, the way the sun faded fabric made the light of Aziraphale’s skin seem all the warmer, the way his wings made the drapes in the cloth fold differently to hug his shoulders. They were very broad shoulders, he noticed. Broader than his, for sure. Aziraphale could probably pick him up and toss him like a sack of wool.

That thought shouldn’t have made his stomach flip the way it did.

Aziraphale bent down to his knee in front of the little boy. He smiled at him, whispered something in his ear, and then said a simple blessing over the rest of the children before he spread his wings and pulled himself into the air. It was a simple trick both he and Crowley knew well; vanish into the sky and pop back up on the ground a little ways away in human form again and no one’s the wiser. The kids stared at the patch of sky Aziraphale had flown through for a moment before they ran off to tell their parents and their friends, and Aziraphale walked up the hill brushing off his sleeves as though he hadn’t just been a many-eyed being of ethereal power.

And Crowley watched the way his arms flexed like he hadn’t seen him do it a hundred times before.

“Oh. Crowley? I think this was for you.” Crowley jerked and yanked his focus back to Earth. Aziraphale had stopped a few yards away from the crest of the hill and was frowning down at a patch of grass.

Crowley scrambled to his feet and went to look over his shoulder. “Fuck,” he said when he saw the smoking patch of grass. It was burnt in a deliberate pattern, and had clearly been meant to say something before the grass had shriveled up and the dirt had soaked away the flames. He’d missed his message from head office.

“Didn’t you see it burning?” Aziraphale was asking him. “I thought you were looking for a sign.”

“Yeah. Well. Y’know,” Crowley deflected. “There was a lot of light coming from that direction, ‘s not my fault I missed it.” He stared helplessly at his feet. He wasn’t sure if not knowing where he was meant to be next or knowing it was Aziraphale’s shoulders that had distracted him was worse.

Aziraphale sighed. “Oh well. I suppose you’ll have to find your own temptation then, won’t you?”

“Suppose so.”

“Mmm.”

“…shame, really, that I don’t tempt kids. Hell’d have a field day if I went around tempting the people you blessed.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasped. He clutched the collar of his tunic. “I can’t believe you’d suggest such a thing. That’s absolutely ludicrous, I’d never allow you to ruin my work.”

“Fine, fine. Just a thought.”

“Well next time keep it just a thought.” Aziraphale tugged at his clothing, a frown still painted on his face. Crowley avoided looking at his shoulders under the shifting fabric and refused to let himself celebrate the thought of next time.


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley had no idea how he’d gotten himself here. One moment he was sitting alone, minding his own business and throwing a truly tremendous sulk, and the next he was sitting at a cozy table for two watching Aziraphale eat oysters. He was pretty sure watching somebody eat wasn’t supposed to be enrapturing. He was also pretty sure any line of supposed normalcy between him and Aziraphale had been crossed when they stood on the wall of Eden together _bantering_ while Adam and Eve went into the desert.

He wasn’t gonna work himself up about something as small as oysters, after all that.

So Aziraphale slipped another oyster into his mouth, and Crowley stared at the way he closed his eyes to savor the taste, and the way his throat worked as he swallowed, and the way he wiggled his shoulders in satisfaction. He still hadn’t gotten over Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“Oh, dear, don’t like them?”

Crowley jumped. “Sorry?” He felt his face heat and really, really hoped Aziraphale hadn’t noticed the staring.

“Your oysters. You’ve hardly touched them,” Aziraphale pointed out.

Crowley looked down at his plate. A full platter of shellfish looked back. He looked at Aziraphale’s plate. His was almost empty.

“Is something wrong?” Aziraphale asked. He twisted a ring around his finger and frowned. “I’m sorry if I—”

“No! No no no no,” Crowley blurted. “No.”

Aziraphale stared at him. “No… no what, dear boy?”

“No, er, nothing’s wrong.” Part of Crowley crowed when the frown left Aziraphale’s face. The other part screamed that he was getting himself into a mess here.

As if to prove that point, Aziraphale looked pointedly at Crowley’s full plate. “Then why aren’t you eating?”

Crowley, ever the master at staying cool under pressure, pulled a perfect excuse out of the ether. “I don’t eat,” he said confidently.

Aziraphale stared at him. Crowley stared back. He replayed his words.

_Oh. I’m fucked,_ he realized.

“You _don’t eat?”_ Aziraphale leaned across the table. “Crowley, I’ve seen you eat. I’ve eaten _with_ you.”

“Naaaa, ggk,” Crowley fumbled. “See well, _ngk,_ the, the thing is…” Aziraphale’s eyebrow very slowly climbed towards his hairline. Crowley decided this might as well happen, and reached for another excuse. “I only eat with humans,” he said. “Y’know, just, just jobs. Work. Things.”

Aziraphale looked at him skeptically. “You only eat for work?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, trying to sound laid back and landing somewhere around painfully anxious. “Just when I have to. For, y’know, temptations and stuff.”

“…I see.” Aziraphale gave him a strange look. Crowley hoped his dark glasses might be doing _something_ to hide his internal turmoil. “Well you should’ve told me, I wouldn’t have dragged you out here if I knew you weren’t going to eat anything.”

“No!” Crowley said too fast. He kicked himself for almost showing his cards. Aziraphale couldn’t know he liked watching him eat. It would be humiliating.

But before he could backpedal himself into yet another disaster, Aziraphale let out a nearly melodramatic sigh. Crowley’s stammering mouth snapped closed.

“I suppose it would be rather a shame to let them go to waste,” Aziraphale said, making it sound like he was a martyr about to take on his trial.

Then he met Crowley’s eyes, and the playful twinkle there soothed Crowley’s panic like a salve. “Oh, of course,” he said, catching onto the game and putting on his own dramatic voice. “What a _terrible_ loss, to leave such splendid food uneaten. What ever shall we do?”

“Well, if you won’t eat them, I suppose I’ll have to,” Aziraphale declared.

“What a sacrifice, angel.”

“Oh hush. Pass me your plate.”

Crowley did, and if he lingered on the part of the ceramic where their fingers almost—not quite, but _almost_ —touched, Aziraphale didn’t say anything. Crowley sat back, and let himself fall under the spell of watching Aziraphale eat oysters again.


	3. Chapter 3

Crowley groaned and sat up, feeling his shoulders pop as he stretched out his back. The manuscript page in front of him was still only half full, a few hours’ work still to go. He didn’t mind, though. The long hours hunched over a desk copying text from one religious text to another were well worth the points he was earning in Hell’s books by infiltrating a monastery. It wasn’t so bad, anyway; at least he could see in the dark, so he wasn’t squinting in the dim candlelight like the humans had to. And writing a blessing didn’t sting your fingers if you changed a word or two to make it a touch less holy.

Crowley took a swig of wine from the bottle on the floor next to him. It was unconsecrated, of course. He’d been extremely careful about that when he first arrived. Then he realized whoever was doing the sanctifying around here was probably the same poor fool who’d been put in charge of consecrating the ground the monastery was built on, and stopped worrying. The floors didn’t even sting his bare feet.

Scanning the manuscript, Crowley decided it had been too long since he’d thrown in a bit of trouble. There was a nicely sized gap on one margin, just perfect for a little doodle of something decidedly unholy. He twirled his quill around the ink pot and pondered what to put there. Blasphemous comment? Inexplicably large snail? Basic pentagram? Or, well, if he were going for the classics…

_“Is that you?”_ a voice whispered right in his ear, and Crowley jumped two feet out of his seat. Ink spattered across the page from his flailing quill, but disappeared without a trace as soon as it landed. “Sorry, dear boy,” Aziraphale said as he leaned around Crowley’s shoulder. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Didn’t— _what do you mean you didn’t_ mean _to startle me?”_ Crowley shouted. Another monk a few desks away gave him a look, and Crowley neatly flashed him his middle finger. He switched to a low hiss, though. “You come up behind me, while I’m _working,_ clearly focused, this is not easy work, angel, and you come up behind me quiet as a fucking mouse and say you _didn’t_ mean to startle me?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said plainly, and dropped into the seat across from Crowley. Crowley sputtered and hastily gathered his work closer. The desks were slanted at a sharp upright angle, double sided so two monks could work under the same candle. Nobody ever sat across from Crowley. He scowled too much.

But Aziraphale sat himself right down and started unrolling a page of vellum of his own. “I must say, I was surprised to see you here,” he commented as he set out ink and quills. “On an assignment, I assume?”

“Erk,” Crowley said. Aziraphale had rolled up his sleeves. It was doing concerning things to Crowley’s heart rate. “Yeah, yeah an assignment.”

“Well I hope you don’t plan on doing anything too dramatic while I’m here. I’m just by to copy some texts. Have to make sure they survive the next few centuries.”

“Mhm.”

“And anyway I rather like copying. It’s soothing.” Crowley choked out an agreement. Soothing it might be for Aziraphale, but Crowley had to sit and _watch_ him sweep the quill over the page, precise and graceful and focused. He seemed to be using his whole arm as he wrote, making his robe bunch up around the shoulders. Like Crowley needed to be reminded he had them.

He had his _tongue_ stuck out at the corner of his mouth. That was just blatantly unfair. He shouldn’t be allowed to be so cute.

Aziraphale cleared his throat, and Crowley snapped his eyes away from his mouth back up to his eyes. They were crinkled at the corners, smiling softly. “I don’t suppose you have a spare bottle of ink, dear?”

Crowley rushed to pass an extra bottle before Aziraphale could notice his blush, which he was sure was humiliatingly visible even in the candlelight. Then he deliberately turned his eyes on his manuscript and went back to work.

Except then everything got worse. Because Aziraphale couldn’t just sit quiet and be an unknowing visual distraction. No, no, the universe didn’t like Crowley that much. Instead, Aziraphale had to start _humming_ as he worked.

Crowley couldn’t follow the tune, though he was sure there was one. Aziraphale wasn’t much one for making things up himself. Crowley figured it must be a chant. He never actually went to mass in the monastery; even in an inadvertently unconsecrated church, actually going to service was pushing it. Nobody noticed, because he didn’t want them to. But he heard the prayers, most days, as he wandered around the dim stone halls. The chants were designed to help carry the words, and they did their job well. Crowley could never remember one from another, but of course Aziraphale would know them by heart.

He stared at the page without seeing it, quill still pressed to the vellum, listening to Aziraphale’s soft voice droning along to a chant. He’d never noticed how warm Aziraphale’s voice was. It made every note sound cherished and adored.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, just listening. Too long, probably, he had no idea how Aziraphale didn’t notice. Maybe he thought Crowley was slacking off intentionally, getting some sloth into his day. Whatever it was, Crowley started when Aziraphale’s chair scraped on the stone and he stood up.

“I think that’s enough for today,” he said, gathering his things. “Will you still be here tomorrow?”

“Ngk. Yes.” Crowley scrambled to sit up. “’m here for another month at least.”

Aziraphale broke into a smile. “Oh, lovely. I’ll see you later, then, Crowley.”

“See you.” Crowley watched Aziraphale stretch out his back— _those damn shoulders_ —before he walked out of the room. “Fucking hell.” He dragged a hand over his face. After a moment to compose himself, he glanced down at his manuscript.

There in the gap in the margin was the doodle he had started. Except where there was supposed to be a pair of circles and a longer loop, there was, instead, two curves coming to a point. A heart. A human’s cartoon image of a heart, on his demonically influenced work.

Crowley was very glad Aziraphale had left already, as he was sure there was no hiding the blush that came on him this time.

“Right, well. That’s just unacceptable,” Crowley said to himself, and dipped his pen in the ink again. He’d just draw more dicks in the margins. That’d make up for it. The heart would just cause some poor scholar in the future some added confusion. That was what Crowley was all about, right? Chaos, confusion. This was fine. Definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent fine.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no, I dropped some angst in my fluff. Whoops.
> 
> Also they’re both female presenting this chapter! Because Crowley in a flapper dress is just objectively Very Good, and there’s been some butch Aziraphale art going around that’s giving me _life_ so here we are.

Crowley downed another drink and debated whether continuing to sit there was actually doing her any good. She was supposed to be tempting one of the men by the bar, lead him to sin, secure his soul, all that jazz. But really, if the guy was already getting drunk off his ass on illegal booze, did she _have_ to do that much to turn him to hell? Not that going to a speakeasy guaranteed anything—plenty of heavenly bound people were dabbling in that particular temptation. But the man at the bar was on the line already. Crowley could pull something small, throw an insult into the air and let him think it was one of his companions who’d said it. The guy was a string bean. Punching a friend to defend his pride wasn’t gonna hurt anything but his soul.

Deciding she would much rather have the night to herself alone in her hotel room, Crowley gathered her purse and shoved a droopy feathered headband back into her short hair. She did like the clothing, at least, all the beads and sequins and short skirts with fringe at the bottom. That was one thing America was getting right. That and the music. The woman crooning into a microphone in the corner was the only thing that had kept Crowley there so long. The singer would be finding herself with tremendous tips at her next few shows, but Crowley was tired of sitting quietly, so she raised her hand for a waiter to bring her bill. Just as she was considering the best brand of insult to start her target fighting, a flash of pale blue by the bar caught her eye, making her turn.

And there, sitting right next to Crowley’s mark, was Aziraphale. Crowley’s throat tightened. They’d seen each other a few times since their fight in 1862, but hadn’t spoken. Just made eye contact across crowded rooms. Aziraphale always looked away first.

But she had her back to Crowley. Hadn’t seen her yet. Which meant there was nothing there to stop Crowley from staring. She couldn’t look away from Aziraphale’s hair. It was short, as was the current style, but her natural curls made it hard to tell if it was cropped very close to her scalp or artfully pinned to look like it. She wore tan slacks and a baby blue button down—with the sleeves neatly rolled up, because the line of her jaw and the breadth of her shoulders wasn’t enough to discorporate Crowley entirely. Aziraphale sat at the bar, chatting with the man Crowley was supposed to be tempting, completely unaware that there was a demon behind her, transfixed by the easy way she moved and gestured. Aziraphale had always been at her most confident on a job. She was _good_ at it, was the thing, a master at subtly leading humans toward the light.

She was also brilliant at tempting them. Crowley had seen her once, on a job they’d swapped for convenience. She hadn’t been able to look away then, either.

Suddenly Aziraphale turned, and Crowley’s breath caught. Their eyes met, and Crowley was overcome with the urge to freeze time for a moment and fix herself up, make sure her lipstick was straight and her mascara hadn’t rubbed off. Aziraphale was perfect, of course. Bare faced and beautiful, a stray curl brushing her forehead and a pretty flush in her cheeks. Crowley stared, drinking her in. Aziraphale stared back.

It was their shared target who broke the spell. A new song began, upbeat and fast, and the man whooped and grabbed a dark haired woman sitting nearby for a dance. Crowley’s eyes followed them, the most treacherous corner of her mind picturing a red haired being in the woman’s place, and a blond in a blue shirt leading the dance. She let herself sink for a moment in the image of twirling around Aziraphale’s arm, of being held close, of being allowed and invited to stare into her eyes for as long as she wanted.

Then the song changed again, and when Crowley looked back at the bar, Aziraphale was gone. Rushing, feeling her face burning in a way a demon’s never should, she threw a handful of cash on the table and ran out of the speakeasy. She was back in her hotel room before she even stepped onto the street, curled up in bed and pretending she wasn’t going to cry.

Nobody should’ve had to go after that man. He was a shared target, an even score. By all rights, Crowley should’ve spent that night lying on a couch in Soho drinking wine and congratulating herself on the genius of the Arrangement. She should’ve been chatting with Aziraphale as she put on a record and slowly slumped lower and lower in her chair, not staring across a bar. They shouldn’t have been working against each other.

Crowley dug her face into the pillow and tried to stop herself from imagining it was Aziraphale’s tummy, and that the blankets pulled tight around her back were Aziraphale’s arms holding her. That wasn’t real. It was never going to happen.

But she might be able to do better than this. She didn’t think she could take much more skirting around each other, pretending it didn’t hurt. They’d started out with an Arrangement, yeah? A no-emotional-strings-necessary business relationship. Maybe Crowley could rebuild that, if not their friendship. Maybe, when she woke up next, she could find an opening. A way to start over. Crowley turned and pulled the blankets over her head, already dreaming of blue eyes and strong hands, and wondering how best to rekindle a relationship with one’s natural enemy.


	5. Chapter 5

Crowley settled himself down on the blanket and miracled any stray rocks out from underneath it. Warlock was still rocketing around the yard, letting all of his energy out now that he’d finally been released. After three straight days of torrential rain, it was an absolute gift to finally have some time outside.

Once Crowley’d had enough basking and he sensed Warlock starting to flag, he called the little boy over. They’d brought a picnic out to eat in the sun. Crisps and sandwiches and apples and lemonade and a package of chocolate chip cookies stashed away at the bottom of the hamper, which Crowley dug out for them to have first.

Warlock chatted away at him to whole time they ate their lunch, telling him about his video games and his favorite movies and all the things he was going to do when he started school the next month. Crowley smiled. It was going to be strange not having Warlock around all the time. Soon there’d be homework and classmates and lunches packed in brown paper bags instead of picnic hampers. But Crowley would still be there for all of it, and all the free weekend days in between. He’d gotten more attached than he ever planned on, but maybe that wasn’t so bad. Had to make sure the kid grew up right, didn’t he? Any extra time they spent together could only help that goal.

Warlock was yawning by the time he was halfway through his sandwich. Crowley nudged him on, reminding him that since he’d had dessert first he had to eat all the rest of his food or his future armies of darkness would never do as he said. But Warlock finished his lunch without a fuss, and immediately climbed onto Crowley’s lap when he was done.

“Will you read me something, Nanny?” he asked.

“Of course, dear. What would you like?”

“You pick.”

Crowley chuckled. If they were very, very lucky, Warlock’s indecisiveness now might be to their advantage down the line. He snapped, letting the bookshelf in Warlock’s room decide for itself which book to send to them.

“How’s this?” he asked, holding _Where the Wild Things Are_ up for Warlock to see. He was definitely a bit old for it by now, but it was one of Warlock’s favorites, and Crowley liked it too. He hardly had to change anything to make it suitably demonic. Warlock nodded happily and settled back against Crowley’s chest to be read to.

They had just gotten to the trees beginning to grow in Max’s bedroom when someone came along the path from the house. Crowley looked up, letting his reading go on autopilot. He knew the words by heart already.

Aziraphale waved as he walked past, grinning behind his gardener disguise. Warlock looked up and waved back with a sleepy “Hi, Brother Francis,” before turning his attention back to the picture book. Crowley gave Aziraphale a look that said something like _yes hello, I see you, hands are a bit full right now._ Aziraphale gave him a smile of understanding and continued across the lawn to the rose bushes.

Crowley kept reading, knowing exactly when to turn the pages and right when to slip into his Thing voice. But he’d given up on looking at the pages. Aziraphale had knelt down near the flowerbed across the path from them, and was beginning to examine the weeds that had cropped up during the days of rain. Crowley watched him gently run his fingers over a dandelion stem, cooing softly to it. The dandelion bloomed almost immediately, and Aziraphale grinned in triumph.

And Crowley wasn’t even exasperated by it. There Aziraphale was, out in a beautiful garden praising _weeds,_ and all Crowley could do was stare transfixed at the way his stupid sideburns crinkled when he laughed. Aziraphale brought another weed into bloom, and Crowley wondered what the gardens might look like if the whole place were covered in dandelions and clovers and creeping buttercups. _Daisies, maybe,_ he thought. _Common daisies are weeds. They’d look nice in a garden._ Aziraphale sat up, looking satisfied with himself. A low row of golden flowers spread all along the ground beneath the rosebushes. Crowley would have to come out later that night and yank some of them out. Or maybe he’d just threaten them a bit. Make sure they knew to keep their roots well away from the roses.

Aziraphale picked up his basket of gardening tools—which were still good as new, he never even _pretended_ to use them properly—and moved to the next flower bed. Crowley didn’t even try to stop himself from staring at the angel’s shoulders anymore. He’d thought the dumb smock he’d picked out for his gardener disguise would help there. Nope. No indeed, it did not help one bit.

Suddenly Aziraphale turned to look over his shoulder. Crowley’s mouth snapped shut, and he realized he hadn’t been speaking for a while. He looked down. The pages of the book were blank white, just a single line of text on one side. And Warlock was fast asleep on his lap, chest rising slow and steady as he started to drool on Crowley’s blouse. He’d finished the book, and didn’t even remember doing it.

Blushing, and hoping it just looked like he’d gone a little heavy on the makeup that day, Crowley hastily gathered up Warlock and the picnic hamper, which suddenly found itself full of their blanket and the trash from their lunch. Warlock didn’t wake as he was carried toward the house, just mumbled something and looped his arms around Crowley’s neck. Crowley couldn’t help pressing a kiss to his hair.

“Nap time?” Aziraphale asked quietly as they passed. So much for getting out of there with his dignity intact, then.

“Long overdue nap time,” Crowley replied.

“Good.” Aziraphale smiled at him. You deserve a little break.”

Crowley choked and tried not to make it audible.

Aziraphale didn’t seem to notice. “This counts as work, then?”

“Ngk. Huh?”

“You count this as a job.” Aziraphale nodded at the picnic basket. “You were eating.”

“Oh. Oh, er, yeah. Job.” Crowley’s face heated again. “Just ‘cos, y’know. He doesn’t eat his fruit if he doesn’t see me doing it.”

“Ah.”

“And fruit’s important for healthy growth and strength and if he’s gonna be the Prince of Hell he’s gotta be strong and… all that stuff.”

“Of course.”

“And apples! Apples, of course he’s gotta eat his apples, first temptation right there, ‘s good training.”

Aziraphale smiled at him again, and Crowley stammered to a stop. “You’re doing a very good job of it,” Aziraphale said. Crowley thought his heart might just stop altogether.

Instead, it picked up speed enough for him to sputter out something of a goodbye and rush inside. It didn’t slow down until he’d already gotten rid of the picnic basket and settled Warlock in bed. “That damn angel,” he said to himself as he started straightening up Warlock’s room. It was already perfectly clean. Crowley straightened it up anyway, desperately trying to keep himself from sitting in the window seat and staring out at the back garden and the man-shaped being down there bringing weeds into bloom.


	6. Chapter 6

Crowley heaved the final box onto the counter and immediately flumped onto a kitchen chair, which obligingly moved to catch him. How on earth Aziraphale had so much _stuff_ was beyond him. Pots and pans and chipped plates and three different kettles, all neatly packed and cluttering up the new kitchen before they’d even gotten started. There hadn’t even been a proper kitchen in the bookshop, _why_ did he have so much stuff?

Crowley rolled his eyes, half at Aziraphale for being like this, and half at himself for the soppy smile on his face. Because whatever reason Aziraphale had had for owning three separate kettles at various stages of modernity, one of them would soon be finding its home on a granite counter next to a sleek black coffee machine with too many levers. A perfect match. Day and night, moon and sun, candle and darkness, totally different yet each one made for the other. Made to exist in the same sky.

It had been a whirlwind since Armageddon. Crowley still reeled some nights— _most_ nights, really—when he found himself tucked into bed wrapped around Aziraphale’s legs, listening to him read quietly and letting the angel card fingers through his hair. It was what he had wanted for so long, and now, suddenly, he had it. Had it right there whenever he wanted it. Hell, he could call Aziraphale in right then, if he wanted to. He was just in the next room, fussing over the mountainous boxes of books and deciding which to put on which living room shelves. Crowley could call, and he would come in, and that was all there was to it. It was mind bending.

But there were boxes to unpack. And counters to clear, and cupboards to fill, and at least three more Bentleys worth of stuff to get into the cottage. The poor car had been very accommodating about fitting everything they’d put in her trunk, but they’d better get it all out sooner than later. Didn’t want any of Crowley’s priceless artwork turning into Queen posters.

So Crowley heaved himself out of the chair and yanked open the first box within reach. It was full of mugs. He grinned as he started to unpack them, gently tugging out the bubble wrap that had been stuffed in each one to keep them safe on the trip. “Oi, angel!” he called as he set the fifth white winged mug on the counter. “What d’you say to some music?”

“Oh, that sounds delightful!” came the response, so Crowley snapped Aziraphale’s ancient phonograph out of wherever it had been packed and settled it in the wide, doorless archway between the kitchen and the living room, so they could both hear it.

“Your choice, angel.”

Aziraphale was silent for a moment. “Oh, I know,” he finally declared, and a record appeared on the phonograph. Billie Holiday began to croon through the cottage, and Crowley swung himself into the archway to give Aziraphale a look.

“Not what I was expecting,” he said, eyebrow raised.

Aziraphale looked nothing but smug. “I’ve still got some surprises for you, darling.”

“Don’t you ever,” Crowley grinned. As many surprises as there were stars in the sky, and Crowley had time to learn them all, now. His heart jumped at Aziraphale’s happy wiggle, and he made himself turn back to the kitchen before he did something stupid, like go over and kiss him senseless. _Mugs,_ he reminded himself. _Mugs, then kissing. Like a reward system. One kiss per box unpacked._

Suddenly the overflow of boxes was less of an unwanted task and more a stack of clumsily taped opportunities.

So he dove in, dusting cabinet shelves, unwrapping plates and cups and bowls and finding homes for each and every one of them. He stacked crisp white ceramic and chipped patterned china plates so they alternated. He set sleek black coffee mugs between antique teacups and mugs with angel wings handles. And he enjoyed the music the whole time, swaying to the rhythm, humming along under his breath when he knew the words. Pots and pans were hung on a ceiling rack which appeared over the island; a pair of electric hand mixers, one from the ‘50s and one you didn’t even have to press a button to operate slid into place next to a plastic bin full of mismatched measuring spoons. He left a few cabinets open: one near the door for easy snack grabbing, a drawer for all the spices they’d each collected over the centuries, and one above the kettle for tins of tea and coffee and cocoa. And soon enough, the boxes were all off the counters and tossed in a heap by the back door, empty. There had been seventeen. _Seventeen kisses for me,_ Crowley thought smugly. He had been keeping that number very close to the front of his mind.

He stretched out his back and groaned, then turned to see what Aziraphale was up to in the living room. He had to have gotten a few bookshelves done by now, surely? Or at least gotten a few boxes worth of books sorted into piles to shelve later. Maybe they could combine box counts, Crowley considered. Seventeen kisses each for him, ten or twelve or however many Aziraphale had emptied for him. He shivered with excitement.

But when he peered through the archway, Aziraphale was still standing in the middle of the room, staring at him, one singular box of books open before him. Crowley scanned the room. There wasn’t a single book on any of the shelves, or on the coffee table, or on the floor. None of the other boxes had been opened.

“Angel?” he asked, concerned. “You okay in here?”

Aziraphale started. He shook his head a little, like he was trying to remember what he’d been doing. “Yes. Sorry, dear, I had my head in the clouds.”

“You haven’t gotten any boxes done.” Crowley came up to him, reaching for his hand. “Is everything alright? Is the room wrong? We could change it—”

“No, no, my dear, not at all,” Aziraphale soothed. He took Crowley’s hand and brought it up to kiss his palm. “It’s perfect, darling, I couldn’t be happier with it.”

“Then why haven’t you unpacked anything? What’ve you been doing in here?”

Aziraphale sighed and fiddled with his rolled up sleeves. Crowley had been very appreciative of finally being able to actually _touch_ Aziraphale’s bare forearms that morning. He ran a hand down one now, trying to reassure his lover.

“I think I got rather distracted,” Aziraphale admitted, eyes fixed on the floor. “I was… oh dear. I was very much enjoying watching _you_ unpack, my love, and dancing with the music, and I couldn’t make myself look away.” He smiled shyly and reached up to cup Crowley’s cheek. “I’ve never been allowed to just look at you before. It was too much to resist.”

Crowley felt his throat try to close up. He glanced over his shoulder at the kitchen, now spotless and settled, and imagined what he must’ve looked like in there. An idiot, probably.

“You’re just so beautiful, Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly. “I couldn’t help myself.”

“Ngk,” Crowley said. This was the kind of conversation he could only handle in bed or snuggled up on the sofa, when he could hide his burning face in Aziraphale’s stomach. “Right—erk—but. But we still gotta unpack!”

Aziraphale kept a hold of his hand as Crowley flung them towards the stacked boxes along the wall. “Darling, I can do them, really. You can go work on the garden if you want, I know you’ve been itching to get your hands back in the dirt.”

“Nope! We’re doing these ones together. Otherwise you’ll just sit here and get distracted by every third book and this’ll never get done.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, barely holding back a smirk. “And what makes you think you won’t be just as much of a distraction as the books?”

“Because,” Crowley grinned, “we’re going to make a game of it. Whoever does the most boxes wins, so you better try to keep up.”

Aziraphale considered this. His thumb was idly stroking Crowley’s knuckles, and it made it very difficult for Crowley to focus on not knocking over every box in front of them. “What does the winner get?” Aziraphale finally asked.

 _“Well,_ this is up for negotiation, _but_ _…”_ Crowley swung himself in front of Aziraphale and leaned close, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “I was thinking winner gets to be distracted by the loser.”

Aziraphale stared at him. Then he burst out laughing, and pulled Crowley down for a kiss. “The punishment shall fit the crime, hmm?”

“And the reward. By the way, you owe me sixteen more kisses.”

“Only sixteen?” Aziraphale asked, giving him a look.

“That’s also up for negotiation.” Aziraphale laughed, and Crowley buried his grin in his shoulder. “Also depends on how many more boxes I unpack,” he added.

“Then I guess we’d better get started, shouldn’t we?” Quick as a whip, Aziraphale spun Crowley around toward the kitchen. Crowley yelped, and turned to find Aziraphale had already grabbed a box off the stack.

 _“Bastard!”_ he cried as he snagged a box of his own, but he was laughing, and so was Aziraphale, and they sat hip to hip as they each dug through a crate of books. And if Crowley used up his remaining kisses as a very unsportsmanlike attempt at distracting Aziraphale and slowing him down, his lover didn’t call him on it.

They got all the books out and in place in under two hours. When they were done, they kept up the race, dashing out to haul more things out of the Bentley and get them into their proper rooms. And when everything was in the little house, they sat out on the back patio and ate takeout while Crowley talked Aziraphale’s ear off about his plans for their garden. There were going to be azaleas, and marigolds, and roses. And there were going to be daisies, in between.

Aziraphale listened attentively the whole time Crowley nattered on, holding his hand and passing him more wine whenever he ran out. Crowley looked over, and noticed Aziraphale was staring at him, a little smile on his face while he watched Crowley talk. Crowley swallowed hard and felt his face heat.

“So,” he said, looking for a way to break the sudden tension. “You won on the box unpacking. What are you thinking for your distraction?” His face got redder. “Could try that bakery on the corner. Or chocolates, chocolates would work. Or, y’know, we do have a new bed to break in—”

“This is fine,” Aziraphale interrupted. Crowley’s mouth snapped shut. Aziraphale smiled at him, and Crowley just about melted through the slats of his deck chair. “I’ve been thoroughly distracted just like this, dearest. Do keep talking, I’d love to hear more about where you want the apple tree.”

Crowley stared at him, feeling his heart slowly turn to mush. “Okay.” His voice cracked. How he was going to survive living with Aziraphale full time now, he had no idea. “Okay,” he repeated, stronger. “Apple tree! Yeah, well, the shade would be nice by the patio here, but the roots’ll start causing trouble eventually, and just between us apple trees and me don’t really get on as is, so we can’t be giving it an opening to complain. And talk about pests, wherever there are fallen apples there _will_ be bees, and I’m not having that this close to the door. But over in the corner there’s still the fence…”

Aziraphale scootched his chair closer so he could lean his head on Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley kept talking. He stammered every time Aziraphale lifted their hands to kiss his knuckles, which was often. He nearly discorporated when Aziraphale casually turned his head to press kisses to his collarbone. But he kept going on about the garden anyway. He was Aziraphale’s distraction that night, however much the angel might be trying to flip their roles. And damn him if he wasn’t going to be the best goddamn distraction the world had ever seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaaaaaaand we're done! thank you all for your comments and kudos as this fic was updating, they always make it easier to keep writing. I'll have something else up on thursday, and then I'm doing the Ineffable Husbands AU week event thing, so here we go, regular posting, wahoo! I'm also on tumblr [over here](https://one-with-the-floor.tumblr.com/) if you wanna hear about my writing or just me yelling about good omens!


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